


Meet you under the lights

by whimsicule



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1452808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The water boils and the kettle wheezes for a couple of seconds, but Louis is distracted by the many traces Harry has already left in here and he needs to swallow around a stubborn lump that’s suddenly stuck in his throat. The stupid magnets on the massive American fridge, silly souvenirs Harry likes to pick up wherever they go, fixing a couple of photographs to the shiny door. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>or It's 2am in LA and Louis can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet you under the lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stylesforstiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylesforstiles/gifts).



> A/N: I don't even know how this happened. First foray into this fandom and I am slightly terrified. Lack of sleep on my part is definitely to blame. 
> 
> A/N2: Also this is for Robyn. I wouldn't say she forced me, but it was heavily encouraged. I obliged.
> 
> A/N3: Title is from "Marz" by John Grant.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a figment of my imagination. (or is it...)

It’s 2am and Louis can’t sleep.

 

It’s not that he isn’t tired, far from it. In fact, he is actually exhausted, heaviness clutching his bones like a vice, but there is an itch in his chest that somehow flicks his eyes open whenever his lids start to droop. He’s already counted more sheep than exist in all of California and he’s checked the bathroom’s faucets twice and he’s yawning so much he thinks he’s about to dislocate his jaw but – he can’t seem to fall asleep.

 

He wonders if he should open a window, if fresh air would help, maybe a quick run around the block, before deciding that a glass of water or a cup of tea might also do the job. It will give him something to do with his twitching hands, at least.

 

Stifling another yawn, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, winces when the floor feels cold against his bare feet and he taps out into the hallway. It still smells new, somehow, not car-new, but weirdly devoid of any distinct smells as if the house was waiting for them to really make it theirs. The walls haven’t been bare for a few days, yet Louis still hears a faint echo as he sneezes halfway to the kitchen.

 

The bright lights from the city centre are in the far distance, an unnatural glow on the horizon. Nevertheless, Louis refrains from switching on the lamp above the small kitchen island, keeping everything in dark nuances of grey, only the red glow of the digital clock in the corner breaking through the lack of colour. Three minutes have passed since he’s got up and Louis can’t stop the nervous flicker in his chest. It’s starting to drive him rather mad. He flicks on the kettle, some hyper modern thing made out of chrome or something else that’s equally shiny, and grabs his phone that’s been sitting on the counter, attached to the charger, since he got in this morning. There are a couple of twitter notifications he ignores, a missed phone call from his mum, no doubt asking if he had a save flight, arrived in one piece and all, and Louis guesses he’ll give her a call in a couple of hours, but talking to his mum wouldn’t ease the restlessness that’s been keeping him up; in fact, she would probably, unbeknownst to her, make it worse.

 

A video of a cat stuck in a window from Niall with a row of entirely unrelated emojis. A short but heartfelt _‘have fun, bro. love u, miss u’_ from Liam and essentially the same from Zayn, a bit more drawn out with an added _‘call me if it’s too much’_ , no explanation needed.

 

Louis sighs and waits for the water to boil, tries in vain to find a teabag in the unlit kitchen cabinets and eventually has to give up and switch on the overhead light. The glow is instantly bright, so much that he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment or two, but it’s warm and once his eyes have adjusted, Louis is hit with how comfortable it feels, how homey and perfect and theirs, with white cabinet fronts and countertops out of polished birch, so eerily similar to their kitchen back in the UK.

 

The water boils and the kettle wheezes for a couple of seconds, but Louis is distracted by the many traces Harry has already left in here and he needs to swallow around a stubborn lump that’s suddenly stuck in his throat. The stupid magnets on the massive American fridge, silly souvenirs Harry likes to pick up wherever they go, fixing a couple of photographs to the shiny door; Anne and Robin at their wedding, Gemma at graduation, a random snapshot Harry had taken of everyone on tour last year (the boys and Louis crammed onto the small lounge sofa with Michael and Josh to play FIFA or something, Louis can’t remember, but they’re all over each other, trying to cheat and sabotage and Niall is shirtless and for some reason Michael is only in his pants), two pictures of Lux and in the centre, slightly bigger than the others, held up by a magnet that says _Louisville_ (he is going to tease Harry for that later, if he remembers): a snapshot of him and Harry and Louis doesn’t remember who’d taken it and he isn’t exactly sure when it was taken, but he thinks they’d fallen asleep backstage by the look of it, maybe before of after soundcheck. He is lying on his back, head propped up by a scrunched up hoodie, one arm limp by his side, the other slung around Harry’s shoulder, fingers disappearing into his curls. Harry’s long body is draped all over him and his t-shirt is rucked up and his mouth is open, drooling onto Louis’ shirt, but his head is resting right above Louis’ heart.

 

He reaches for his chest and presses down and Louis figures that might be the reason why his ribcage is feeling like it’s about to fly apart.

 

Louis forgets all about his tea and heads into the living room, overlooking the surrounding area, phone cradled in his hand as he tries to stop his knees from buckling.

 

_‘are you up?’_

 

He waits no more than ten seconds before Zayn replies. _‘sure, what’s up? y aren’t u asleep?’_

Louis hesitates for a moment. _‘harry had to go out,’_ he types with shaky fingers and starts chewing on his lip and suddenly, he feels really fucking pathetic because it’s been maybe three fucking hours and Harry’s going to be back before morning and –

 

The shrill ring of his phone almost makes Louis drop it on the spot. He fumbles with it before he manages to hit accept.

 

_“Are you okay?”_ Zayn’s voice is instantly soothing and Louis takes a calming breath.

 

“Yeah, I,” he starts and wipes a hand across his face, trying to rub the burn away from his tired eyes. “Sorry, it’s stupid. I just – can’t sleep. Probably just jetlag, I mean, what time is it in London anyway? Like, eight or something? My body just thinks it has to be awake and –”

 

_“Louis,”_ Zayn cuts him off. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t really need to, never has and Louis walks up and down along the large window front that leads out onto their terrace. Harry talked about new deckchairs arriving earlier, big sturdy things that wouldn’t collapse under the weight of two people and he digs his free hand into his vest, starts pulling on the hem to stop his fingers from twitching.

 

“It’s the first night in our house. I mean, together. I don’t want to sleep if he’s not here and I don’t think I can and it was supposed to be our first night in our new home and he was called out and – _God_. I’m being stupid, sorry. It’s not a big deal, I shouldn’t be so…” He trails off because he wants to say a lot of things and isn’t sure if any of them fit. Pathetic is one of them, needy as well. Louis sighs and leans his forehead against the cool glass door.

 

Zayn doesn’t tell him to stop and he doesn’t tell him not to freak out either, and Louis kind of loves him for it. _“You want me to stay on the phone with you?”_ he asks instead. _“Until H gets back?”_

A wave of affection, warm and pleasant, curls up his chest and settles on his shoulders like a blanket, releasing some of the tension that’s been making him uncomfortable for hours. Louis does want to keep talking to Zayn, knows that the other could distract him easily for the amount of time Harry will be gone for, but he needs to get over it. This isn’t the first time he’s had to sleep alone, whether it be in their bed or one in some hotel and it won’t be the last and yes, tonight is slightly different, yet at the same time it’s not. He’s a big boy. He can go the fuck to sleep.

 

“Nah,” he shrugs it off and pushes away from the glass. “I’ll put on one of Haz’s weird audio books. That’ll put me right to sleep.”

 

Zayn chuckles quietly on the other end of the line and it’s pretty clear that Louis isn’t fooling anybody. He knows, just as well as Zayn knows, that only a depressingly strong sedative could make him close his eyes at this point. That, or –

 

“If you say so,” Zayn tells him and is silent for a couple more seconds before he continues with a more serious tone to his voice. “Listen, Tommo, I know it sucks. It’s fucking bullshit; we all know that. So you can say it, yeah? No need to brush it off. Just call me, asshole.”

 

They talk quietly for another minute or so, Zayn filling him in on his plans for the next few days before they mutter their good-byes and Louis grasps the emptiness of this new, big and still half-empty place more than he did before as he puts his phone back onto the counter in the kitchen. It’s half-empty, waiting to be filled up with things and voices and _life_ and Louis is feeling pretty small, swallowed up by the semi-darkness that’s surrounding him.

 

The kitchen opens up into the generous living room. Its centrepiece is a cream-coloured couch with a handful of colourful cushions, but the only blanket that’s lying on one of the armrests is scratchy to the touch when Louis lifts it and drapes it over his shoulder, settling down and leaning back.

 

His eyes search for the remote for the giant TV screen that takes up an impressive amount of wall space opposite him, but then his gaze falls onto a stack of books on the living room table. Catcher in the Rye, The Tin Drum, War and Peace; Harry had mentioned wanting to catch up on some classics during their break, but Louis knows for a fact that he’s perhaps read the first page of each and not a sentence more. There’s still half a dozen shirts thrown haphazardly onto an armchair from Louis trying them on earlier (they share most of their clothes anyway and he keeps telling Harry that it doesn’t matter if they fit, that he quite likes it when everything’s slightly bigger on him, when he can tell how Harry’s shoulders have stretched the fabric). A packet of Curly Wurly bars, which always cracks them up even if the joke’s gotten so fucking old. A couple of pens. Harry’s notebook.

 

Louis ponders on leaving a message in there for Harry to find when he flicks through the pages in the next couple of days like he does sometimes, but everything he could be slipping in there right now doesn’t seem fitting. All he can think of is _I am missing you_ and _I can’t sleep when you’re not here_ and _This shirt doesn’t smell like you_ and _Our bed is too fucking huge._

It’s been a few hours, and Louis really needs to get a grip. Jetlag just does things to him. Burrowing deeper into the cushions, he fishes the remote from where it’s been stuck between two pillows and flicks on the TV, skipping FOX and CNN and other crap until he finds some show he’s never seen and doesn’t pay attention to once he draws the blanket tighter around his frame.

 

He must drift off eventually, after how long he can’t tell and for how long he doesn’t know, but something jostles him awake and when he opens his eyes, the TV is still flickering in the background, but right in front of him, right here, is his boy.

 

“Hey,” Louis breathes out and if his neck hurts from the odd angle he fell asleep in, he barely notices.

 

Harry tastes minty thanks to his chewing gum compulsion when he leans forward and catches Louis’ lips briefly. Louis overcomes the temptation to deepen the kiss, instead opts for looking at Harry for a handful of moments because there is no rush at the moment and he can take as long as he wants. Harry looks tired and he smells faintly of smoke, like when he spends a few hours with Zayn, but the smell only clings to his surface and underneath it’s still all him.

 

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

 

Louis wants to shrug, but he feels too heavy to move. It’s a good weight though; this time it’s a good weight. “I don’t know,” he says, not needing to explain anything. Harry gets it. Louis is sure he does. “Blanket’s scratchy.” He tugs one curl free, twists it around his finger.

 

“Our sheets aren’t. Egyptian cotton, actually, organic –”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts Harry off before he can start on the thread count. Then he stretches out his arms. “Carry me? Terrible jetlag.”

 

Louis can tell that Harry is trying to look stern. He fails miserably though, like always, twitching lips giving him away. “You know that excuse is going to wear off eventually,” he tells Louis, but he still tangles their hands together and pulls.

 

It’s a scramble, because Louis makes a point of making himself as heavy as possible and Harry is tired and generally not in the best control of his limbs, elbows going places they aren’t supposed to and both of them nearly brain themselves in the hallway after Harry stumbles over Louis’ shoes that are already scattered about. Eventually though, they make it to their bedroom and Louis flops down gracelessly, arms and legs stretched wide as he watches his boyfriend struggle with his jeans and flannel shirt.

 

Finally, Harry drapes his body over Louis’, head coming to rest of his chest, lips ghosting over inked letters and Louis closes his eyes, and with all the feelings that are still circling between them, suddenly, somehow, these four walls start to seem barely wide enough. 

 

“We need a new blanket for the couch,” he says without opening his eyes, just relishing the way they fit together. “This one’s worse than the one your mum keeps in the guest room.”

 

“Hm,” Harry hums, voice vibrating against Louis’ sternum. “Was thinking about re-upholstering the couch, too. I like the cream, but ‘s not very convenient. I mean, like… the kids are gonna smear whatever they find onto it and we’ll, like, would’ve to get it professionally cleaned every day. Maybe a dark grey, or like, navy or something…”

 

Louis feels even the last bits of tension seeping out of his pores as he listens to Harry talk about colour schemes and some weird Feng Shui and he thinks of re-upholstering the couch and getting a decent carpet and some deckchairs for their terrace; about the little magnets on the fridge and their collection of photographs that’s only going to grow and wall space for family collages and low hooks for tiny coats. He thinks about the extra bedrooms and storage space for bikes when they fly in during unpleasant London winters and the little 1D romper suit Lou got them as a joke and that still makes his chest ache in the best possible way.

 

Blindly reaching for Harry’s hand, he squeezes it tightly. This house is still half-empty but it’s theirs and they’re going to fill it up with so much until it’s bursting at the seams and Louis can’t fucking wait.

 

 It’s 4.32 am in LA. He closes his eyes and lets Harry’s ramblings pull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N4: I'm also whimsicule on tumblr. I mainly post weird stuff. Happy to take complaints and condolences.


End file.
